


When The Letter Said

by kay_emm_gee



Series: the kids aren't alright (The 100 tumblr prompts) [36]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Army, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Love Confessions, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 01:24:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4587732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_emm_gee/pseuds/kay_emm_gee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Most definitely do not write a Bellarke fic based on Travelin Soldier by the Dixie Chicks. Don't do it.</p>
<p>Summary: Clarke doesn't know if she has the right to mourn Bellamy Blake, because although she knew him better than anyone after months of exchange correspondence (and he knew her), no one else knew that fact. Except he has one more letter for her, and it, and the confession it holds, prove that she has may have more of a right than anybody.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When The Letter Said

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry.

Clarke sat against the back of her door, head pressed to her knees, clutching her phone.

Her fingers itched to dial his number, to press the speaker to her ear, to listen to his voice another time.

_Hello, you’ve reached Bellamy Blake. I’m not here right now, but leave a message and I—he won’t call you back because he’s forgetful and he sucks_ , Octavia’s voice would conclude, accompanied by her laugh and Bellamy swearing in the background.

Oh, how she missed him.

Clarke squeezed her eyes shut, stubbornly willing away the inevitable tears. She hadn’t cried when he had left for the desert, so she couldn’t let herself do it now.

She hadn’t  _known_  him when he had deployed though, at least not as more than the senior boy who was the second smartest person in all of her advanced-level classes (she was the first) and her lab partner for the semester. But she knew him now.

She knew that he didn’t particularly believe in president and country, but he believed in the money and promise of a college education. He craved Wendy’s fries and didn’t actually mind the heat over there so much. He loved books about mythology and the ancient world—she sent him a few new ones only a couple of weeks ago—he loved rap music, and he loved, loved, loved his sister.

He loved her enough to take Clarke aside one day after class last year and ask her to keep an eye on Octavia while he was gone.

_Gone?_  Clarke had said, startled.

_I’ve enlisted._

Her eyes had widened, because she at least thought he would’ve tried for a scholarship, or the community college.

_You’ve enlisted_ , she repeated, licking her lips.

_I don’t have many friends here, and you’ve met her, and you’re a girl—_ Clarke had laughed at that, and the tense lines around his tired eyes had relaxed just a little bit— _and I need someone to make sure she doesn’t get into too much trouble._

Clarke had simply nodded.  _Okay._  Everyone had heard the rumors about Aurora, about how she was only a mother in name, so she didn’t question his request.

He hadn’t said thank you, but the relief in his smile had been enough for her.

Somehow over the months of correspondence his weekly one-line emails ( _How’s Octavia?_ ) had grown to two ( _How’s Octavia? How are you?)_ , and then into paragraphs ( _The 1995 version of Pride & Prejudice is totally the better version! That mist field scene was so goddamn Hollywood I could practically see the LA skyline in the background.)_

So she knew Bellamy Blake. She knew that he had vomited the first time he had shot someone, that he had vivid recurrent nightmares about getting captured and tortured, that he hated himself for missing Octavia’s sixteenth birthday. He told her all the things he couldn’t bear to tell his sister, and that his mother wouldn’t care to hear. And she told him things back: about how she got into a stupid fight with Wells, how scared she was for college next year, how her parents were fighting more and more. His emails—and eventually his video chats—were the bright points in her day.

He knew her, and she knew him.

And then the men in uniform had come, walking onto the field of Octavia’s field hockey game last week, with stoic faces and devastating news, and everything she thought she knew had shattered.

The cry Octavia had let out as she crumpled to the ground had sent shivers down Clarke’s spine. Without a second thought, she had raced from the bleachers to the sidelines, embracing the girl who no longer had a brother. As Octavia had sobbed into her shoulder, Clarke had fought back tears. She didn’t have the right to mourn him, not at that moment, not when Octavia had lost so much. For all anyone knew, to her, Bellamy was a classmate, just the brother of the girl whom she had taken under her wing the past few months. So she swallowed her tears and listened to Octavia wail, steeling herself against the grief eating at her heart.

She had swallowed her tears as she had escorted Octavia off the field, as she had slept over in O’s bed that night, as she had taken charge of the funeral arrangements, because Aurora was too shocked and Octavia was too young, and someone had to do it.

Even now, as she was sitting in her bedroom instead of attending his funeral— _she didn’t have the right_ —she was fighting tears, fighting the urge to call his voicemail, to hear a voice of a dead man.

_Hello, you’ve reached Bellamy Blake. I’m not here right now, but leave a message and I—_

_Hello, you’ve reached Bellamy Blake. I’m not here right now, but leave a message and I—_

_Hello, you’ve reached Bellamy Blake. I’m not here right now, but leave a message and I—_

_Hello, you’ve reached Bellamy Blake. I’m not here right now, but leave a message and I—_

Twilight had long since passed when a soft knock sounded at her door.

“Clarke?” Octavia’s teary voice echoed weakly through the thick wood.

Clarke inhaled deeply before she answered. “What are you doing here?”

The girl’s silence was enough.  _Looking for you._

She couldn’t move though, couldn’t unfold herself, as much as her cramped muscles screamed for it, as much as her grieving heart ached for it. There was a whisper of sigh, and then the slide of paper against wood. Looking down, Clarke saw a crumpled, folded letter next to her hand on the floor.

“It came with his things. He would’ve wanted you to have it.” She paused. “I know why you didn’t come today, but I wish you had.” Clarke listened to her hesitate hopefully outside the door, then sigh again and walk away.

Her room grew darker as the night moved on around her, the muted white glow of the paper inches from her fingertips the only bright spot in her view.

She fell asleep clutching it, fighting the urge to open it as strongly as she still fought the tears.

The letter stayed under her pillow, ignored as she went to class, went to soccer practice. She pushed it from her mind as she stayed late in the studio working on her paintings for her senior capstone, shoved it from her thoughts as she forced herself to attend student council meetings.

Then, days later, in a weak moment, she dialed his number.

_We’re sorry, but the number you have dialed has been disconnected._

It took her breath away, and she had no choice but to reach for the letter, the last little bit of him that she had left.

Knowing it was time to visit him, to say goodbye, she stared blankly at her closet, panic rising as she realized she had nothing black to wear. Angry tears welled up, because the  _least_  she could do was wear black to go to his grave, she had skipped his damn funeral, so she had to do this one thing right—

Now matter how much she glared at her clothes, however, no black dress or skirt magically appeared. Her eyes kept darting back to her prom dress—knee-length, navy, strapless—that she had picked out months ago (she had planned on sending him a picture) and a dark laugh bubbled up her throat, sticking thickly.

_Why the hell not,_  she thought as she pulled it on, darting out of the house before her parents noticed her attire, the letter clutched desperately in her hand.

The sun was just beginning to set when she reached his grave. Without much ceremony, she plopped down onto the freshly laid sod, running her fingers through the blades of grass.

_Here. He’s here._

Her heart cracked a bit more with each crinkling sound the letter made as she unfolded it. It took her a few blinks to focus on the large, scrawling words, blurred as her sight was by tears.

_This is stupid,_  the letter started, and Clarke couldn’t help but let out a watery laugh. It was so very Bellamy, blunt, annoyed, but also heartfelt, and the familiarity of it gave her the courage to read on.

_This is stupid, writing a letter. No one writes letters anymore. But it’d be lame if I wrote this in an email, and I’m too much of a chickenshit to do this over video. So, a letter it is._

_You said you’re not going with anyone to prom, that you were just tagging along with Wells and Maya. And god, am I fucking glad for that, because if I was over here listening to Miller snore like a jackhammer and Murphy gloat about winning the last round of poker (he totally cheated) while you were going to prom with a guy who no doubt realizes how awesome you are and is right fucking there next to you, I’d probably—I don’t know what I’d do, but it’d probably result in a dishonorable discharge._

_What I’m trying to say is that, I’m really glad you’re not going to prom with anyone, because I’d want it to be me. If that’s what you wanted, obviously. If you didn’t that’s okay, and I guess it doesn’t really matter because I’m not there, but if I was, then I’d want to go with you—fuck it._

_I love you._

All the tears Clarke had been holding back since that night on the field surfaced, streaming down her cheeks as she continued to read on, finding out the one thing she had not known about Bellamy Blake—he  _loved_  her—something that she had hoped was true but had never had the courage to ask about.

The letter told her how much he loved her, in all the best ways, in the same way that she had loved him in those last few months. She cried, because he had loved her and now she knew, and because she had loved him but he had never known.

“Yeah, I’d go to prom with you,” she finally whispered aloud to no one.

_Lucky me._

“Lucky you.”

_You look nice, princess._

She closed her eyes and smiled through a sob. “I love you, Bell.”

_Love you too, Clarke._

“Lucky me.”

_Lucky you._

She gripped the letter tighter, her eyes finally dry.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, sorry.
> 
> Come cry with me on tumblr (kay-emm-gee).


End file.
